


Rule 63

by LadyMerlin



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, M/M, genderbender
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-02-19
Updated: 2011-04-28
Packaged: 2017-10-15 18:50:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/163812
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyMerlin/pseuds/LadyMerlin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rule 63 states that There Is Always A Female Version Of A Male Character (and Vice Versa)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Uh. I was walking outside with an umbrella, and expecting it to rain but it didn't. I was really awkward carrying it along, not sure whether to put it across my shoulders or drag it along the sidewalk or suspend it in the air until I thought to my self, "What Would Mycroft Holmes Do?" and was struck with a bizarre desire to invoke Rule 63.
> 
> It's a law of the internet. Go check it out. So. Female!Mycroft Holmes plus DI Lestrade. I think this might be the first het pairing in maybe 6 years that's turned me on. So. Here goes nothing.
> 
> Liberties have been Taken in order to not disrupt the time-space-canon continuum, and you can't make me give them back. Also, Rule 34. ALSO, forgive me for the lines stolen from the end of ASIP.
> 
> tl;dr Female Mycroft/DI Lestrade BBC'Verse.

"Sherlock, that's him. That's the man I was talking to you about."

Sherlock glanced in the direction John was gesturing. His eyes narrowed. "I know exactly who that is." He strode towards the tall (taller even that Sherlock, by just a hair), slightly portly man. "Lewis. How's the diet coming?"

The man's genial face twitched. It was... an absurd expression which made John queasy, because it didn't look like it belonged there, and the man didn't know what to do with it. "Fine, Master Holmes..." Sherlock cut him off with a ridiculously haughty wave of his left hand. John raised an eyebrow and 'Lewis' rolled his eyes as if to say, 'Tell me about it.'

The car door opened, and a slender blonde, practically effiminate man in a dark suit reminiscent of Sherlock's slid out. He pulled the door open a little wider and offered a hand to someone waiting inside. John found himself getting twitchy and Sherlock crossed his arms and tapped his foot impatiently. "Oh dear god Myra, hurry up." The man named Lewis opened up a huge umbrella and held it over the car door, almost prophetically as it started to drizzle. Sherlock scowled and turned up his collar. John ignored it. This was cold, but Afghanistan nights had been much colder.

A slender hand accepted the blonde's gloved hand, and a woman in sensible one inch heels emerged. They were a bright, scarlet red. It was bumfuck cold and she was wearing a knee length black skirt which hugged her delicate curves. Her dark blue blouse was simple and fit well, and if asked to guess John would have said it was tailored. In her heels, she barely reached John's height. Her dark curls cascaded over her shoulders. Simple pearl ear drops were the only adornment on her pretty, but unremarkable features. Nothing was remarkable except her eyes, which were a larger, darker, stormier version of Sherlock's, and just as darkly intelligent.

She slipped her hand out of the gloved one and stepped forward, delicately clutching an unremarkable purse. Both men followed her like shadows. The... blonde man who looked more and more like a woman every second stood slightly closer, arms neatly pinned behind him (her?), eyes nailed to his blackberry.

Lewis held the umbrella over the lady, getting slightly damp himself. "Sherlock. Dr. Watson. What a pleasure."

"Oh come off it, Myra. You knew we'd be here. Stop pretending to be surprised." Sherlock sounded cross. It probably had to do with the fact that John was almost as impressed at Myra's show of power as he had been with Sherlock's show of deductive brilliance. Sherlock was so... jealous. It was endearing.

She shrugged charmingly and offered a disarming smile, dimpling prettily on both sides of perfectly applied dark lipstick. Sherlock's scowl deepened. "So, you were the one who threatened me, through Lewis?" She wrinkled her nose.

"Lewis? Who's that?" she asked, ignoring the 'threatened' part, and looked in the direction of John's gaze. Her eyes widened in amusement. "Oh. Who said his name was Lewis? Today he's Gerard. He's more imposing than I am. People don't take short women seriously, I've discovered. It's perfectly acceptable to have a proxy for situations involving chauvanistic characters." She studied her unpolished, perfectly maintained nails. "So, another case cracked. How very public spirited." The 'though that's never really your motivation, is it?' was left unsaid. Her tone was perfectly complacent, and John realised something vital.

Sherlock was supposed to be the sociopath. But he wasn't. He was anything but a sociopath, from the way he fumed beside John, radiating heat and fury. If anyone was a sociopath, it was Myra. And even then, not completely gone. John could see traces of irritation flicker across her eyes.

Sherlock had honed the skill of sighing to an art. When he sighed, his entire body played a part, shoulders slumping in mock despair, expressive hands falling limply over his forehead, like a victorian heroine. "Myra, must you be so childish?"

"I, dear Sherlock, am not the childish one. This petty feud between us is what is childish, people will suffer. And you know how it always upset mummy." Myra looked as cool as if she felt nothing but boredom, but her left eyelid twitched.

"No, no, wait," John interrupted, before Sherlock opened his mouth to say something even more ridiculous. Both turned to look at him, but the man/woman who most definitely was wearing a bra maintained his/her fixed stare at his/her blackberry. John vaguely thought that his drill seargants would have been proud of his/her discipline. "Mummy? Who's mummy?" He wondered if he'd stepped into a bond film, and Mummy was short for Agent M.

"Mother," Sherlock snapped. "Our mother." He turned back to the woman. "This is my sister, Myra."

John opened his mouth, and found he had nothing worth saying, so snapped it shut again. Myra looked approving, and Sherlock held him by his jacket collar and pulled him slightly closer; possessive. "He's mine, Myra. You can't have him."

She grinned wolfishly, raising the hair on the back of John's neck. Though that might have been because of Sherlock's hand which stayed on the nape of his neck, so demanding. He was even glad of the absurd claim. Sherlock was an utter and complete loon, but John at least felt like he could trust the man. Myra was significantly more worrying than Sherlock. She had the feel of one with no personal boundaries, someone who'd stop at nothing to get what she wanted. She was even scarier than Lewis/Gerard, for all her being a short female.

"So, you're not a criminal mastermind, or anything." John just had to clarify, because if Myra was a criminal and Sherlock worked with the police, he could see where problems would arise.

Sherlock quirked an eyebrow, fighting a smile. "Close enough."

She rolled her eyes, suddenly looking impossibly young. "For goodness sake! I occupy a minor position in the British Government!" Her hand flicked to her purse, as Sherlock scoffed.

"She *is* the British Government when she's not too busy being the British Secret Service or the CIA on a freelance basis. Good evening Myra. Try not to start a war before I get home, you know what it does to the traffic." He glared down at her, height difference looking almost comical now. John thought he could laugh in relief. He'd been feeling worried for Sherlock ever since that meeting with Lewis/Gerard/Myra. God, what was wrong with those people? Couldn't they fix their names and be done with it?

Sherlock was already stalking away, long coat fluttering (dare he say it?) gothically in the wet wind. John thought to ask a question. "So, when when you say you're concerned about him, you actually are concerned." It didn't turn out as much a question as he'd intended.

She laughed. "Of course!" She tilted her head immeasurably, and the blackberry person and Gerard snapped to, opening the door of the car and talking to the driver and rummaging in pockets respectively.

"You mean it actually is a childish feud." John had to get this out of his system. It was so difficult to imagine Sherlock looking so sharp and pointy and striking, and his sister being so forgettable but utterly chilling at the same time. They didn't feel related.

"He's always been so resentful. You can imagine the christmas dinners," Myra sighed, looking ready enough to answer his questions.

Of which, he admittedly, had a lot. But he didn't like standing here alone with her. Sherlock was striding (because god forbid Sherlock ever *walk*) further and further. John glanced after him, and replied almost automatically, "yeah," before realising what he'd just said. "No, God no." It was a concept of horror beyond John's imagination, and he'd invaded Asia.

Myra grinned as he sprinted to catch up with Sherlock, who suddenly slowed as if waiting for John a safe distance from his sister. She shot a glance at Anthea (the blackberry person), who nodded. "Updating security status to level three, active for Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson, ma'am." Myra just nodded. She'd trained her people well.

She got back in her car and headed back to the office, but not before catching the eye of a silver haired DI watching from a distance, for a split second. Interesting. Very interesting.


	2. Chapter 2

The next time Sherlock and John met Lestrade (two and a quarter days later, at two in the morning), Sherlock actually grinned at the crime scene. John felt like hitting him on the back of his head, but like Mrs. Hudson he seemed to have come to the conclusion, and accepted that Sherlock working on gruesome cases was infinitely better than Sherlock not-working, or god forbid, Sherlock bored.

Sherlock solved it in twenty minutes flat, and looked utterly disappointed with the Human Race as a whole for their unimaginative criminality.

"So," Lestrade ventured, "Who was that woman?" He was doing his very best to keep scribbling on his note-pad, a habit picked up from John. His voice was calm, but sounded... off. Like he was suppressing some emotion.

Sherlock and John looked at him. "We've already established the victim is a male, Lestrade, and despite your utter stupidity, I would have expected you could recognise male genitalia, due to your having a pair." John didn't say anything, grinning, possibly because he recognised the look on Lestrade's face. The man was sharper than Sherlock gave him credit for, Lestrade realised. Or maybe, Sherlock did give him the credit he was due. Maybe that's why John put up with Sherlock's childishness.

"Not the victim, you tosser. The lady whom you met at the end of 'A Study In Pink'." Sherlock literally cringed because of the name. John grinned. It was flattering, really. He had a massive readership, because living with Sherlock was like reality telly on crack. His daily reports on goings-on in their household seemed to be ranked highly as mid-day entertainment. Harry told him she had to be the first one he told when they tried to make a movie of it.

John also understood Lestrade's question. He only wished he could warn the man before dug himself deeper into the pit of insanity that was the Holmes'.

Sherlock cracked a grin. "Myra. Myra Holmes." Lestrade blanched. "She's my sister. If you value your life and your sanity, you'd stay away from her." Sherlock had moved past his grin, and looked utterly, indecently delighted. John guessed this would serve well as blackmail evidence for both Lestrade and Myra, and Sherlock was nothing but pragmatic. It'd be two birds with one stone.

"Yes, all right, Sherlock. I won't touch her." Lestrade rolled his eyes at Sherlock, blushing slightly. Sherlock actually, really laughed. Lestrade had obviously thought it was one of the 'touch my sister and you die' type scenarios. Holmes or not, Sherlock was a brother. Lestrade knew brothers. He was one, himself.

John grinned. "You misunderstand him. He has no problem with you asking her out. He'd be happy if you asked her out. He'd never let you forget it. He's actually telling you the truth, because despite his bitching, he likes you." Sherlock sneered, defensive, but it seemed automatic, with very little heat behind it. "He thinks no one else would let him touch crime scenes for a while, so he's got a vested interest in your continued well being. She's bloody terrifying."

Lestrade raised one dark eyebrow in disbelief. "Surely you're exaggerating." She looked... sweet. Dimples made her look utterly adorable, and she couldn't have been more than thirty. A bit young for him, but he could dream, right? John responded to a message absently, and didn't answer him. Sherlock raised an eyebrow in return.

"How old is she?" he asked, deciding he'd ask around. Someone had to have heard of her, right?

John looked towards Sherlock; he didn't know. Sherlock wrinkled his nose at the dead body. "Who? Myra? she's three years older than me, to the date."

Sighing, John asked, for Lestrade, "And how old are you, you tosser." Sherlock looked confused.

"You know very well how old I am, John." Sherlock's 'I'm honestly confused here,' look was more adorable than Lestrade would have thought possible. Big eyes, open mouth, tilted head. He'd never actually seen Sherlock baffled before.

"Yeah, but I can't just go blurting your age out to everyone," John explained patiently, like a kindergarten teacher talking to a particularly stupid parent.

Sherlock's mouth rounded in an 'oh' of understanding. "Social nuances. I see. I'm thirty two this year."

Lestrade would have gaped. The man didn't look thirty two. He looked like he'd just graduated uni, or something. John nodded, as if to say, I agree. Sherlock wasn't paying attention to them, which was normal. And Myra Holmes had seriously not looked older than thirty. That she was thirty five improved Lestrade's chances, because he was thirty eight, and three years wasn't too bad.

"She's ancient in terms of treachery, I warn you Lestrade. She may be young in years but the heart that beats beneath her bosom is as shriveled as an old maid's, her soul as dry as the pages of the books to which she so desperately cleaves." Sherlock was now trying to squeeze himself into a cupboard in the corner. John and Lestrade took no notice.

John laughed out loud at the Harry Potter reference. Lestrade gaped. He'd been sure Sherlock didn't even own a telly until after the first 'drugs raid'. Sherlock's scowl lost shape for a second, morphing into a genuine smile directed towards John. Ah. So that's what it was. Lestrade should have known. He continued, "But she's... pretty. Prettier than a bloke would have reason to believe after clapping eyes on you, Sherlock."

John scoffed. Lestrade wasn't sure at what. Maybe he was saying that he'd expected Sherlock's sister to be pretty, looking at Sherlock. Ugh. "You tell me when you meet her. She's scarier than Sherlock." Sherlock then scowled, but didn't say anything. Apparently he agreed. "Pretty, Geoff, is directly proportional to the terror factor in the Holmes family." Sherlock nodded absently, agreeing, sniffing at the chair in the corner of the room, before rattling his conclusions off loudly.

John diligently took notes. Sherlock stole John's pencil and used to to stab at the power socket. John grinned, as if he'd been expecting it, and rummaged in his pockets to find a pen. He continued scribbling. Lord, it was like the two of them were married!

"Yeah, yeah, John. I'll believe it when I see it," Lestrade finished quietly. He would keep at it. She looked... fascinating. He'd see her eventually, around their crime scenes, or when Sherlock made a mess. He'd ask her out for coffee then.

He'd see her sooner than he expected.


	3. Chapter 3

It was a perfectly normal day. Sherlock had just solved a case, resulting in him being hospitalised. Nothing new there. John was fretting away, pacing in the hospital room beside an unconscious Sherlock's bed, and Lestrade didn't blame him. Honestly, living with Sherlock had to be giving the man blood pressure that even he could diagnose from a mile away, being a Copper and all.

Lestrade had just gotten off his shift, having finished covering for Sherlock's fool behaviour in the process of the investigation, like he'd been doing for a few years now. It still didn't feel like cheating. He'd do anything to keep Sherlock on their side, and he wasn't sure how he felt about that, so he did his best to not think about it. Besides, now that John had taken up permanent residence as Sherlock's moral compass, Lestrade got the feeling that Sherlock would stay on their side just to please John, no matter how boring it was to not commit crimes. Sherlock looked at John like he was Sherlock's whole world, and the intensity of whatever it was building up between the two of them made Lestrade want to hide in a closet, just so he wouldn't have to look at it and get burned.

He went straight to the hospital room which practically had Sherlock's name written all over it; it made Lestrade sick to think about all the times the younger man had lain there, pale to the point of being translucent, still to the point of being unnatural. He was... fond of Sherlock, in a strange way. Not like they were friends, or anything. They didn't even like each other. Not enough to warrant this kind of reaction from Lestrade. He was more worried now than when Anderson had been poisoned, and he worked with the man on a daily basis. It was deeper than just 'like'. It was... respect? It felt like respect, which made him put up with all of Sherlock's nonsense, and made him sick at the idea of not having Sherlock around one day. He was somewhat of a constant in Lestrade's life. He'd appeared one day in the young sergeant's cubicle, late at night, and scared him half to death. He'd gotten Lestrade the highest solve rate in the whole Yard, because Lestrade wasn't so stuck up as to disregard Sherlock simply because he was a civilian. It would have to be a blind man who didn't see Sherlock had a bone deep need to fix things that were wrong, and while his motives weren't exactly pure... Lestrade figured everyone around him was blind.

John, on the other hand, he liked. Everyone liked John. John liked everyone, and if he didn't like them, he was still nice to everyone. Almost everyone, he corrected himself. John liked people who didn't hurt Sherlock. The man, for all his soft spoken manners and warm smiles and god-awful jumpers was a military man. He had been reminded very vividly of the fact when John had deciphered a series of clues with Sherlock-esque brilliance to lead them to the place Sherlock had been held for two days. Lestrade had gotten very worried when John gave them the slip, not for John, but for what letting John have the first shot would do to the case in court. It didn't stop him from feeling really bad for the man with drawn, pale skin and hidden eyes, slumped in a chair beside Sherlock Holmes, who only looked in passing like their teddy-bear John Watson.

He knocked on their door (their door?) and John looked up so fast that Lestrade jumped. He relaxed imperceptibly when he saw it was Lestrade, and Lestrade thought he could safely say John Watson considered him a friend. He fell into a second chair in the corner of the room, and promptly dozed off. He was here for moral support. Neither of them could do anything for Sherlock now. John knew that. But Lestrade also knew of the irrational desire to keep vigil by bedsides, for the fear that the person would slip away while they slept. He'd been there.

Lestrade woke when the door opened next, letting a crack of light into the now dark room. He glanced at the glowing face on his wrist-watch; it was two thirty in the morning. He rubbed his eyes. It was probably John going out, or something. But, he quickly noticed, John was sleeping with his head on Sherlock's bed, hands clasped awkwardly. Christ, the two were adorable, once Lestrade got over the squick factor. Wait. Who'd opened the door?

The silhouette was small, clearly feminine from the outline of hips and bust. She looked his way and he was on his feet reaching for his gun without thinking. Who the hell was she, and what was she doing in here at this god forsaken hour? Clearly she didn't mean Sherlock well. Or John. Or even him. He hadn't exactly kept it quiet that he'd be with Sherlock and John if anyone needed him. The light reflected slightly, as she grinned, and it was an eerie effect that Lestrade could see her wide, white smile, but not her face.

"Detective Inspector Lestrade," she said in a low voice, calm but warning at the same time. "Please, lower your weapon. We don't want to wake Sherlock or the good doctor." Her statement wasn't so much a request as a... threat. Lestrade just knew that if he didn't comply, he'd regret it. He didn't, for the life of him, know what she could do to him, but the confidence in her voice was sureness, not bluster. She had the power to hurt him.

He lowered his gun, finger still on the trigger. "John," he hissed. She tilted her head studying him calmly. "John, wake up." He didn't look away from her, not once. He didn't trust her. Didn't know what was going on, but if John was awake to make sure nothing happened to Sherlock, Lestrade would feel much better. He slid closer to John because he couldn't reach from where he was, still watching the lady. He shook John with one hand, and he started awake.

"What?" John demanded, before following Lestrade's gaze. John's hand was on his gun, and Lestrade hadn't realised when that had happened, but his grip relaxed ever so slightly. "Myra, Christ."

"You know her?" Lestrade asked. John nodded tersely.

"She's Sherlock's sister." Lestrade slowly lowered his gun, really, for the first time. "You know how to scare a man to death, don't you?" He sounded utterly serious, and the lady's silence was more telling than anything else.

"Forgive me for intruding, but John, I do believe you've just facilitated my next move. Thank you. How is my brother?" Her voice was more calm than anything Lestrade had heard in a while, and it was almost sad that calmness was abnormal in his life, rather than panic.

John rubbed his hands over his face, as if to push sleep away. "He'll be okay, eventually. Broke two ribs in the tackle, but that wasn't the biggest problem. He was shot at, and grazed. No permanent damage except for scarring, thank god. But he'd been sedated to keep him in bed. If he doesn't rest, he'll screw up his recovery." He sounded... doctor-y, to Lestrade's ears. Weary, and worried, and completely un-rested. He would have made a point to not get Sherlock involved in anything for the next few days, at least, but he wasn't sure Sherlock's boredom would lead to much rest for John. He couldn't think of how to help his friend.

"Very well, John. You'll hear from me. In the meantime, DI Lestrade, may I speak with you privately?" It still wasn't a question.

He followed her outside, and yes, this was the same beautiful woman he'd been so interested in meeting a while ago, glimpsed from a distance. This time her lipstick was shockingly red, eyes dark grey and solemn despite her cutesy smile. Damn. John had been right. She was... chilling. "Geoff," she began charmingly, and wrinkled her nose in consternation. "Can I call you that? Geoff?" She put a hand on his arm, and damn if it wasn't one of the creepiest things Lestrade had ever seen or experienced. She smiled shyly, the steady character from the ward gone. She was like every other teenage girl Lestrade had seen; tittery and giggly, refusing to make solid eye contact except from under heavy lashes.

He stepped back, just a little. "Uh, please stop that?" He figured politeness was probably the best way to go, no matter how much he wanted to get as far away from her as possible.

"Stop what?" she giggled, and twirled a lock of hair around her left index finger.

"Okay, seriously. Stop that. It's creepy." Lestrade couldn't help it. Her hand was still on his arm and the proximity was making his body crazy. On one hand, she was beautiful, and it was flattering when a beautiful, younger woman paid attention. On the other hand, she reminded him of a predator about to go for his jugular.

She laughed out loud, and her stance shifted slightly. She was back. She straightened from her slouch and pushed her hair aside. "DI Lestrade. You live up to your reputation." She was still studying him intently. He wondered if she was reading his whole life like this, like Sherlock did.

"Reputation?" He asked, because hey, he couldn't say anything else, right?

"Why, yes!" she mock exclaimed, but this time he could tell she wasn't making fun of him, exactly. She was making fun of something else. "Didn't you know? One of the youngest of your kind, they tell me. Rising star. Intuition like a predators' instinct, sharp and brilliant. But humble, and kind. People much higher up are singing your praise. Sherlock Holmes respects you. You'll go far, Detective Inspector Lestrade," she fell silent, but he knew she hadn't finished what she was saying. "You'll go far if you follow the books and toe the line. In fact, the only thing keeping you from a promotion is your insistence on keeping Sherlock Holmes on the consultation list." She was demanding an explanation without actually saying it out loud. Like she was asking about his intentions towards her brother. Eurgh. The idea. Lestrade suppressed a shiver.

Then he shrugged. She wanted to know? She wanted information from him, which he could easily withhold, because he didn't really have a fucking clue why he insisted on Sherlock. He sighed. "Sherlock's my friend. Anyway," he went on before she could speak. "You have an advantage over me, I believe." She was unperturbed. "You know my name, and so much about me. I don't know your name."

She raised one perfect eyebrow, then extended her right hand, to Lestrade's honest surprise. "I'm Myra Holmes. Sherlock's younger sister. I occupy a minor position in the British Ministry of Home Affairs."

He scoffed, calling her on it. No way she was a 'minor government employee'. Not a chance in hell. The corner of her mouth quirked in a smile, but she didn't offer any further information. Okay, fine. Fair enough. If she was high up, and she was, judging by the security lurking around in the background, she wouldn't tell him anything. He could respect that. He would have to answer her now. He would, to the best of his abilities. "I'm not an idiot. I can accept help when I need it. And Sherlock, for all his bitching, helps. And he's good at it. And his heart is... close enough to the right place." Her eyes flashed in a burst of amusement, and a splash of heat went down Lestrade's spine. "And I've known him for a long time." He shrugged. There was nothing else to it.

"And why do you cover for him?" she asked. Lestrade felt like he was being interviewed.

Lestrade sighed, eyes flickering around to see if he could be overheard. She looked amused. "He's my friend. Could you please keep that to yourself? I like my job."

She smiled, and it was real, ruthless and only slightly amused. "I know you do. I also know you don't help any other consult out."

"Because I don't have any other consulting detectives like Sherlock, now do I?" He asked, slightly bitter now. He didn't particularly enjoy being called on his softness for Sherlock, or for his rule-bending.

She inclined her head gracefully, a gesture which would have been at home in a royal family, and conceded. "No, you do not. But do not misunderstand me. I was simply saying, that for your assistance, you could be reimbursed very easily."

Lestrade blistered. Beautiful or not, Sherlock's sister or not, she didn't have the right to say that. He would not be bought, for fuck's sake. "No," he bit out, and made it sound like the end of the conversation as he whirled to walk away. He found a large man in a dark suit watching from barely ten meters behind him. He sighed. Damn. He walked back to her, and she was patiently waiting, arms crossed. "I do it because I want to. Sherlock's my friend. You can't bribe me. I'll do it because I like to, because I can, not because you want me to."

She actually smiled. "Apparently, Sherlock has good choice in friends. John Watson responded similarly. You have a strong ally in him, in the herculean task of keeping my brother alive." Lestrade didn't know what to think. She was testing him? The hell? "And, Lestrade, you have an ally in me. Should your supervisors raise any issues, or should you require assistance off the books whether your case involves my brother or not, feel free to ask." She handed him a slip of paper with a cell phone number on it, and nothing else. "Burn this after you program it into your phone." He stared at the small card, then looked up at her.

"Why?" Simple question. He hoped she'd give a simple answer. She'd not misunderstood him. He knew that much.

"He's my brother, Lestrade. Whether he likes it or not. And I will look after him with everything I can, because I know if I needed him, he'd drop everything and help me. I love him, god help me." She sighed, then froze, looking away. Lestrade couldn't but help think she looked... embarrassed. Damn. He opened his mouth to say something, but he couldn't think of what to say, and she cut him off before he could begin. "I will be in touch, Detective Inspector Lestrade. Do not hesitate to call me should you need assistance. That is my private number. It will always be available." She turned and walked away smartly, without looking back.

"I won't tell anyone," Lestrade called after her, because if she genuinely wanted to help her brother, she at least deserved to know that Lestrade respected the bond between siblings. She didn't misunderstand him now, either, as she looked back and flashed a sudden, sunny smile. She looked young, just like Sherlock when he smiled but wasn't shamming at it. Hell, but she looked a lot better than Sherlock.


	4. Chapter 4

John recovered fully from _his _injury, within a week. The nurses thanked their gods, and the doctors just hired a psychologist for a couple of mass therapy sessions. John was let out of the hospital with far too much joy to be seemly. John didn't hold it against them. Sherlock had been driving them mad as he slept, John was sure. When John woke up, Sherlock would be like an affectionate puppy, laughing and smiling and sitting in one spot for more than ten minutes, just to get John's affection. When John went to sleep, Sherlock grew a pair of horns and a tail, and went around deducing everyone. The social fabric of the hospital looked, at this point, irreparable.__

Sherlock had even eaten regular-ish meals, which was as much a miracle as anything else. He ate one full meal a day, and fell asleep in the cheap plastic chair for exactly an hour and a half, long lean limbs everywhere. He didn't leave John more than he could afford to, and growled menacingly at almost everyone who visited when they wore on his nerves. John's 'girlfriend' Sarah wasn't allowed to step in the room a single time. John was asleep every time she visited. Lestrade was allowed in as and when he was free, for which Lestrade guessed he should have been flattered. Mrs. Hudson was only allowed in when John was alseep, because she bored John silly, a sleepy Sherlock confessed. Sherlock denied the fact that he had even ever been asleep until he went blue in the face. Lestrade had tactfully dropped the subject. God forbid his visiting privilages be revoked.

Myra visited once, after the first time. It was at one in the morning, and Lestrade wondered if she was a vampire. He hadn't seen her in the daylight a single time. Sherlock allowed her in, apparently too exhausted to argue, and promptly went back to sleep. Lestrade couldn't sleep once he'd been woken, unless he was drugged, so he didn't even bother trying.

She perched on the bedside table to study John and Sherlock, using an umbrella to prop herself up, and Lestrade found himself jumping out of his chair to offer it to her. She'd shot him a highly amused glance, before accepting his chair in silence, with only a nod of thanks.

"So," Lestrade found himself saying after a moment of silence, without any apparent control on his mouth, "coffee?"

There was another moment of silence, in which Lestrade had a minor internal meltdown because what the fuck had he been thinking, and she studied him with a blank face, looking for an ulterior motive. Then she nodded and Lestrade let out a breath he hadn't realised he was holding. "Preferences?" he asked, looking around for his wallet while patting down his various pockets.

"Black. Nothing in it," she said, never looking away. He nodded and stalked out, feeling hairs rise on the back of his neck as her gaze followed him.

He recited all the curse words he could think of on the trip to and from the drinks machine, in alphabetical order. He didn't repeat a single one. He kept trying to convince himself that this was Sherlock's sister, but he appeared to have lost all control on his brain-to-mouth filter in her vicinity, and he didn't know how to fix it. He was coming on to her, yeah, but not seriously. It wasn't going to happen, and... It would just be plain awkward, wouldn't it? Imagine meeting Sherlock's mother at Christmas. Christ. There was nothing wrong with showing interest, really. She was an attractive woman. He wasn't that ugly. It was just coffee, he tried to tell himself. But it wasn't. This was a Holmes. Nothing was ever just anything. That's what John had told him. He was interested, yeah. But he hoped to god she didn't take him up on it, because he wouldn't know how to respond.

He decided it was safer to quit thinking before he hurt himself. The cups of coffee were pathetically small, but he didn't have a choice, so he went back to the room. She was still sitting there, and Lestrade noticed with surprise that he had been fully expecting her to vanish while he was gone. He handed her her black coffee. He kept his double milk, triple sugar coffee in his hand.

"What do you do with the Government?" he asked, again without thinking.

She studied him just like Sherlock did, only she didn't say anything. So apparently, this Holmes would keep her observations to herself. "I occupy a minor position in the British Government. Low level paper shuffler, of course. It's a job." The answer sounded false, but false as if it was something she had memorised and told everyone. Maybe because she didn't have a choice.

Sherlock twisted in his chair, limbs tangled so awkwardly that Lestrade winced. "She is the British Government," he recited, without opening his eyes. For a second, Lestrade was mortified to think that Sherlock had heard Lestrade asking his sister out, but Sherlock said nothing further, and to all appearances went back to sleep. Lestrade let out a huff of laughter, because wasn't that just typical Sherlock? She smiled at him. "Yes, well. Rules are rules, I'm sure you understand," she continued. This time it sounded more genuine. Yeah. She hadn't had a choice in talking about her designation.

"You are the British Government?" he asked, suddenly amused. "Sherlock must have an awful lot of respect for you if he says that out loud."

She actually laughed, to Lestrade's delight. "Coming from any other person, yes, it would be respect. From Sherlock, no, not so much," she shook her head ruefully. He grinned. He knew what she meant.

"Anyway. Now, you can call me Geoff. Thanks for your offer last time, really. I thought about it. It would be easier having someone up there to make sure nothing slips through." He ran a hand through his hair, eyes sliding shut. He was tired. It was hard covering for Sherlock properly. The way the man did things left too many damn witnesses. Lestrade was good at his job, definitely, but it was an extensive task.

"Myra," she said simply, extending her hand and shaking firmly, as compared to last time when she'd just gripped back. "Think nothing of it. I imagine you'd be having coronaries left, right and centre dealing with Sherlock. It's the least I can do." She leans into the chair for the first time, and Lestrade notices she'd been sitting ram rod straight until then. Disciplined.

Then there was silence. There was nothing else to talk about, because her job was obviously off limits, and he wasn't going to make things awkward for her by pressing the question. And it was an okay silence. Comfortable, even, Lestrade thought, before he fell asleep.

**Author's Note:**

> My first published Sherlock fic since Sherlock BBC took over my brain, though not the first one written. Constructive Criticism Pls?


End file.
